Oenosis (n.)
from oinos, Greek for wine the slow alchemy of fruit into spirit, sweetness into ache.
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At first, abundance— every night a glass too full, sweetness rushing the blood, loneliness blurred to warmth. It felt like devotion, the pour unending, the room bright with gold.
But indulgence dulls. Too much sweetness numbs the tongue; the long steep slackened what held us. What seemed like safety bent easily into risk. Hunger sharpened, boundaries softened, and the night turned.
Overpour drowns discernment. It leaves the body pliable, calls the overproof warmth devotion, until the burn reveals itself too late.
This was never vintage— never something aged into depth. Only pulp, over-soaked, coming apart in the glass.
Still, there lingers the ghost of that first sip, bright as rescue, sharp with promise, impossible to forget— knowing it was always marked to spoil.
